


Wear Your Inside Out

by Miso



Series: A War He Can't Forget [11]
Category: SCTV (Canada TV)
Genre: (but no boning), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 12:36:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10967361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: That news item couldn't have come at a worse time.





	Wear Your Inside Out

**Author's Note:**

> OH FLOYD I AM SO SORRY. i know the vietnam series has been focusing a lot on floyd's abusive childhood lately, but it's just as important to how completely fucked his mental state is as the war. :C his dad is a real piece of shit and honestly i would love to do a fic where he gets what's coming to him someday. obv, trigger warning for mentions/descriptions of child abuse.

You're used to Floyd having panic attacks. You're not used to him having them at work, and you're really not used to him having them on the air. In retrospect, you probably should have seen the signs. It isn't like he's had the best day anyway; he's been especially cold and snippy, and at the same time has refused to leave your side for most of it. In fact, during lunch when you stood up to grab a napkin, you swear you saw him reach for your sleeve before recoiling and silently going back to his paperwork, suddenly completely uninterested in the sandwich beside him.

He's reading a story about a Rosewood man arrested for beating his wife and children when you notice him trail off and stare at his items for a solid minute. The crew make a few noises of confusion among themselves and exchange glances. He bites his lip, momentarily, then passes control of the broadcast to you. You watch him for a moment as he trembles, putting his head down on the desk and breathing a bit too heavily than he should, and you're not entirely sure what to do. You desperately want to help him, but part of you feels like you should put on a brave face at least long enough to get "and that's the news" out.

You rush through the final story and your editorial before blurting out "and that's the news" almost in one word. The crew seem to understand your sense of urgency, if nothing else, and quickly get you off the air. You kneel beside Floyd, who's still face down on the desk and shaking. "Floyd? Floyd, it's alright, it's gonna be okay..." You gently touch his shoulder to inform him of your presence before stroking his hair and glancing to the crew. You point randomly at people and bark orders: "You, help me get him somewhere quiet. You, get a glass of water. The rest of you, beat it."

A few of them seem a bit offended, but most listen without complaint. With a bit of aid from one of the cameramen you manage to get your trembling, hyperventilating co-anchor to a quiet, dark corner of the studio, where he immediately curls close to you and desperately avoids any other touch. The producer sets a cup of water beside you, and they both look at you quizzically for more orders. You give them one. "Leave."

And within moments you're alone with Floyd. Like he senses it's safe to do so, he breaks down completely the second the crew is entirely gone. You curse quietly when you realize there's no way to get him the medicine he needs right now. He's gonna have to ride this out. You stroke his hair as he sobs into your chest, white-knuckling your jacket. You can feel him almost vibrating and sweat mats his bangs to his forehead. Pulling his head to your chest and holding him close, you rock him gently and hush him. Sometimes, you're not sure if it's a war flashback or a childhood abuse flashback that triggers these. At least this one couldn't be more clear. In the case of the former, you maintain a fairly safe distance; you learned the hard way he goes into the 'fight' half of flight-or-fight in a war flashback. The latter... he just wants to be safe, and usually when he's coming out of it he's still not entirely _there._ You glance down at him and swear momentarily that you can see the thin fabric of his shirt move with every pound of his heart.

You wince as the doors to the news studio fly open with a loud bang. Floyd yelps in terror and hides his face, hyperventilating desperately. Caballero has completely forgone his wheelchair and storms up to you. "What the FUCK was that?!"

"Shhh!" You cradle Floyd close and stroke his hair again. "Floyd, baby, it's alright, please..."

"No, it ain't alright!" Caballero throws his hat on the ground and stalks closer. "What the fuck happened?!" You're not sure if it's his words, his tone of voice, or both, but something about Guy's speech is only making things worse. 

"Mr. Caballero, can we please deal with this later?" you ask, praying it's not seen as confrontational. "I really need to get him to calm down, and... and no offense, but you're not really helping-"

"I don't give a shit if I'm not helping!" He makes a sudden move for Floyd, who cries out in terror and cowers in your arms. "Oh, my god, come off it, you big baby!" You wince as Floyd cries harder. "How old are you supposed to be!? Three?! Stop fuckin' crying and do your job!"

"Mr. Caballero, stop it!" You pull Floyd as close as you can without hurting him and glare daggers at your boss. "He won't calm down any faster with someone yelling at him! He can't help it! Please, just let me calm him down, he'll be fine by the news tomorrow morning, I promise!"

"If he's not, you're both fired!"

Floyd cries harder and more helplessly into your chest. "He will be," you explain desperately as you try to settle your frantic, panicking boyfriend. "I promise he will be."

With that, Caballero picks up his hat and storms out of the room, grumbling under his breath. You let out a slightly irritated sigh without thinking and flinch when Floyd tenses and backs away from you in response. "No, no, Floyd, it's not you. I promise. Come here."

"Y-you'll hurt me!"

"I won't. I promise you, I won't." You offer him your hand gently. "I promise. That was then, this is now, and you're safe now. I promise you're safe." You've made a lot of promises in the last five minutes, you think, as Floyd stares at your hand, curled into himself. "I'm safe. You're safe."

You inch just a little bit closer to him and wince as he shirks away from your touch. Right about then you remember the water and grab it, offering the cup to him gently. "Do you want a drink?" His mouth has to be dry with all that crying, but he shakes his head and sobs. "It'll help, baby, I promise it'll help." Another promise. You're starting to figure out you say that when you aren't sure what else to do. "Please. Just a little drink."

He eyes you and the cup with suspicion but accepts it. His hands are shaking wildly and you gently steady them so the water actually gets to his lips. He drinks it like it's nectar from heaven, and his breathing steadies just a bit. "There you go," you whisper as he lowers the cup. "That's good. Good job."

He curls into you again, desperate for a calming and gentle touch. You smooth his hair, hush him, and rock him. It's routine, but it seems to work as his trembling begins to calm. You can't see his heartbeat moving his shirt anymore.

Eventually, he looks up at you with big, scared eyes. Your heart shatters in an instant. He looks so vulnerable and helpless after a panic attack and all you want to do is pick him up and wrap him in a blanket and keep him safe forever. "I-I'm sorry," he breathes, his voice a couple octaves higher than normal. "D-don't be mad... please don't be mad."

"I'm not. I'm not mad," you reassure him, gently brushing his soaked bangs from his forehead. "You're okay. You wanna go home?" He nods and grips your jacket. "Okay. Okay, we'll go home."

It's a long, quiet drive home to an equally quiet house. He retreats to the bedroom before you get the front door shut and locked. You give him a little time to decompress before you follow him and find him curled up with the bed sheets pulled firmly over his head. "Floyd?" you whisper gently, settling onto your side of the bed. "Baby, are you alright?"

"No." The reply is concise and muffled, but audible. You spot his work clothes in a rumpled pile in the corner.

"Do you want Purrl?" Purrl Camembert used to be yours. These days, he's more Floyd's. You're not bothered. As long as Floyd's happy, you'll do anything. You'd bring him the moon if he asked you to.

He pauses, then a hand pops out of his protective blanket fortress. "I'm taking that as a yes." You grab the stuffed cat from the dresser and place it in his hand, which immediately retreats back under the blanket with the rest of him.

You stand up slowly, so you don't startle him. "I'm gonna change, okay? I'll be right back." You ditch your work clothes in record time and change into an old, worn-out shirt and a pair of sweatpants before settling yourself back onto the bed. "Can I get you anything, babe?"

"Leave me alone."

"Alright. I'll be downstairs." You rub his shoulder through the blankets. "I love you. Come down when you're ready."

It's several hours later, but eventually you hear footfalls on the steps. You glance up from your book and smile a little at your boyfriend, clad in a pair of flannel pajamas despite the early summer heat. He always got so cold after a panic attack. "Hey. Feeling any better?"

He shrugs noncommittally and settles onto the couch beside you. He's still gripping Purrl for dear life. "... Sorry I freaked out at work."

"Baby, you can't help that." You wrap your arm around his shoulders after setting your book aside. "Can I ask what happened, though? Flashback?"

He nods and swallows hard, pulling Purrl close to his chest. "Just... that item really hit me. I would have killed for my dad to go to jail when I was a kid. If it meant he'd stop hitting me, I would have done anything." Floyd is quiet for a second, then continues. "He would beat me with a belt when I did the Rosary in the wrong order. 10 lashes every time. More if I cried. Or screamed." He curls into a protective ball, knees to his chest. "I-it usually ended up closer to 40. I couldn't sit down for days one time and no one questioned it because that's just how you raised your kids. If you didn't spank them or hit them with a belt you weren't a good parent."

You sit quietly and listen. This isn't your time to interject. He needs to work through this. "And then it would escalate from just whipping my ass with a belt. I know I bled through at least one shirt in school from the cuts on my back. He never bothered to make sure he wasn't hitting me with the buckle." You wince, but say nothing. "Th-then he started hitting me and leaving marks, with his hands. For the tiniest things. I didn't bring him his slippers fast enough or I spilled a glass of water or I fought back when someone tried to take my toys."

You have to ask. "It wasn't just you, though, was it...? N-not that what he did was okay, but-"

"I had it the worst." Floyd plays with Purrl's ears. "I don't know what I did to make him hate me so much. Exist, I guess."

"... He didn't hate you. He couldn't."

"He hated me, Earl. Not once did he mince words about it. He hated me. He hated all of us except for Boris. He never made it a secret or acted like he didn't have a favorite. He told me to my face he hated me when I was five. Five fucking years old, Earl." Floyd wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist almost aggressively. "I was still carrying around my blanket. And he took it away from me and told me I was too old for it and threw it in the trash. And when I tried to get it back he whipped me and told me he hated me. And he never apologized or took it back." Floyd white-knuckled Purrl. "A-And when I called him out on it years later he just said I deserved it."

"Floyd..." You wrap your arms around him again. He snuggles into you, but doesn't cry. "... I'll take the item if anything like that comes up again. Y-you shouldn't have had to go through that."

Floyd is quiet as he lays his head on your chest. "... Can we just order a pizza and forget it happened?"

"If you want." You kiss the top of his head gently. "Go take a shower... I'll call. You might feel a little better after you get cleaned up." He nods and disappears into the bathroom without a word.

You sigh a little as you pick up the phone.

He'll be okay someday. You just don't know when.


End file.
